Days Like These Lead To Nights Like This
by johnsarmylady
Summary: A snapshot - what happens after a successful chase and a righteous arrest, when they return home, and close out the world. Johnlock, rated M because I'm paranoid.


**Disclaimer: I don't own these characters - they belong to ACD, Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC**

_Days like these…_

For the barest second Sherlock and John looked at each other, then with matching maniacal grins they set off in hot pursuit of the murderers, running full tilt into the biting November wind.

"Come on John!" Sherlock yelled, his long legs putting distance between them.

John's shorter legs moved faster as he pushed himself to keep up, the grin giving way in part to determined, measured breathing. Rounding a corner seconds after his lanky flatmate he saw him, crouched down and examining the floor.

"Those idiots think that by splitting up they can beat us, John!" He leapt up and started running, pointing in the opposite direction. "Go that way!"

Both men, eyes alight with the thrill of the chase, pursued their quarry. Their paths brought them together again, and side by side they closed in.

Unfortunately for the two inept killers, the route they had taken had led them to a dead end, to a high wall with glass embedded in it to prevent intruders climbing in. They turned, and saw the detective and the doctor standing side by side, watching and waiting for them to make their move.

The resultant fight was quick and dirty, the gravel causing almost as much damage to the four participants as the blows that were exchanged, but in very short order two rather large and sheepish looking thugs were lying face down, hands tied with cable ties, being sat on by two giggling men who really should have been taking things more seriously.

John and Sherlock were still giggling when Lestrade and Donovan arrived to take the perpetrators away, and they had difficulty keeping straight faces as they travelled back to Baker Street.

xXx

_Nights like this…_

Sherlock looked up from where he was just finishing stoking up the fire, bringing warmth into the chill winter evening, to see John putting two steaming bowls of broth onto the table between their armchairs.

"I would have thought cleaning these up…" he held out grazed knuckles "...would have been your first priority?"

John glanced over from pulling the curtains and shutting out the cold and dark world outside.

"Get warm first, inside and out, another half an hour won't hurt them."

They sat and ate in silence, occasionally sharing a glance, and when both bowls were empty John scooped them up, taking them out to the kitchen and returning with a bowl of warm water and his medical kit.

"Shirt off." He said, putting his things down on the now empty table. "No, don't argue, I want to check you over for bruises – I saw that moron land a couple of heavy blows…"

With a smirk Sherlock slipped out of his shirt, his pale skin reflecting the firelight, glowing under gentle touch of his doctor.

There was appreciation as well as clinical care in John's eyes as examined deceptively well-muscled torso.

"A few bruises then, nothing that will cause you too much discomfort. Sit." He indicated the chair, and as the younger man sat down John knelt down in front of him, taking his hands and gently cleaning the abraded skin, smoothing antiseptic cream into the wounds.

"Okay, that's you done." Turning away to clean his own grazes he felt fingers plucking at his jumper.

"Oh I don't think so, doctor. I wasn't the only one to take a few body hits, and you didn't have the benefit of good coat to protect you."

His eyebrows almost losing themselves in his blond hair, John pulled off his jumper, shrugged out of his shirt and dragged his t-shirt over his head, and allowed himself to be subjected to the close scrutiny of those sharp grey eyes.

The touch of damp cotton wool just above his hip made his breath hiss from between his teeth.

"Just a graze, John."

John hummed, relaxing as long gentle fingers cleaned and soothed, with touches as if he were made of the finest porcelain.

"Now your hands."

Sitting down, he held his hands out as Sherlock knelt, mirroring John's earlier actions, and continued his careful ministrations.

Putting aside the cream and cotton wool, the younger man moved, pushing his hips between John's knees, grey eyes catching and holding blue, as hands reached out, one to take hold of the doctor's face, the other to lay gently other his heart as he pulled him close, soft lips seeking out the other's.

John melted into the embrace, hands carding through soft curls, pushing through, and on to strong shoulders, to stroke rippling muscles, to caress warm skin.

Pressing the smaller man back into his chair Sherlock kissed, and nipped, and licked his way down the solid chest, teasing nipples on the way, revelling in the salty, musky taste of John's skin.

John's hand moved back up to the curly head, cupping the back of the skull, pulling him closer as he arched towards the questing lips, a moan of pure pleasure escaping from his lips.

"Bed?" Sherlock asked against warm flesh, his teeth scraping across John's ribcage.

"Here." Came the breathless response, as John launched up from the chair, lifting and tipping Sherlock onto his back where he pressed him down onto the fireside rug, his hand still cradling the younger man's head. "Now"

In the glow of the firelight, the only sounds to be heard were the soft sounds of clothing being removed, of lips on skin, of flesh stroking against flesh, building to the guttural moans of fulfilment and satisfaction, dying once more to sighs and the sound of lovers nuzzling together, wrapping around each other, safe and warm.

Sleepily, an arm reached up for woollen blanket that hung on the back of a chair, and pulled it down, spreading it over entwined bodies before curling in and resting blond head on pale chest, allowing sleep at last to claim them as they recovered their strength in preparation for another day like this.


End file.
